


Is That All There Is? (St Paul's Survives)

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Bombing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, M/M, Slow Dancing, The Blitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 13:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale share a private moment during an ongoing public tragedy.





	Is That All There Is? (St Paul's Survives)

**Author's Note:**

> thecoquimonster: "dancing is so Soft and a/c is the Softest. there should be more fanfic of Aziraphale and Crowley dancing. i know it exists. but there needs to be more." 
> 
> me: "you’re absolutely right" *writes this*
> 
> I regret writing this but I did so it’s getting posted.

_London, December 29 th, 1940_

 

Aziraphale was pacing. There was a fire raging outside the bookshop. Bombs had been falling for hours and London was in flames with too little people on duty to put them out. He wouldn’t know the extent of the damage until morning if he stayed where he was, couldn’t _do anything_ from here. He should go out, he wanted to go out. But he had promised Crowley. The demon had left several hours ago with a sharp demand to _stay put, Aziraphale_.  

Their Arrangement had been changing over the last few years. The beginning of the second world war had been… well, it had pushed them together in a way Aziraphale hadn’t anticipated. They’d been through lots of wars together. Lived through some, even. And Aziraphale was no fool. He’d seen the signs, at the beginning. By the mid 1930s he was sure it was all going to happen again, and he had tracked Crowley down to demand he tell him everything he knew, which, as it turned out, wasn’t much.

Hell hadn’t been in contact about anything specific. Crowley had received a commendation for something that had happened in Spain, but he wasn’t even sure what it was and was afraid to look too closely, not after the last time. Aziraphale had chided him for being ridiculous; after all, what could they do without information? So Crowley had gone off to find out, and when he’d come back to London…

Aziraphale could still remember the sharp smell of bile as Crowley retched into the little-used toilet in Aziraphale’s upstairs flat, could remember standing in the doorway and looking down at the demon as he wiped his mouth and gasped up at him that this wasn’t Heaven or Hell, this was just humanity. This wasn’t Armageddon, and Aziraphale didn’t know whether to be relieved or not, looking at Crowley on the floor of his bathroom, spit streaking his chin and his eyes bloodshot. Trembling all over like he might come apart at any moment. Like… like whatever it was in Spain had been the Inquisition all over again.

Whatever Crowley had learned, he never shared the specifics with Aziraphale. But he’d stuck around for an unprecedented amount of time afterwards, allowing Aziraphale to take him around the place that he’d called home since the 1600s and show him all his favorites, bakeries, restaurants, theaters, archives, churches, museums, bookshops, parks, gardens, bridges... And all the while, Crowley had been quieter, gentler with him than usual. In retrospect Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel that he’d been giving him a chance to say goodbye to his city, because so much of it was gone now. So much had been destroyed, was continuing _to be_ destroyed, and Aziraphale was trapped inside, bound by his word and forced not to act as it continued.

When the evacuations had started back in September, Crowley had urged Aziraphale to go, and the angel had looked at him with disgust. “I’m staying.” He’d said. “But if you want to leave, by all means, do so.”

Crowley hadn’t. He’d shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets, and accompanied Aziraphale back to the bookshop. He’d gone with Aziraphale to facilitate the evacuation of children, to cites where precious artifacts were being moved so they weren’t damaged, to tube stations where people were hiding, crouched or sleeping in the cold as the sirens wailed overhead.

And he’d _helped_. It wasn’t just that he’d done good deeds that went above and beyond the normal boundaries of the Arrangement, things no demon would feel obligated to do, although that was certainly part of it. It was also just… his presence. Aziraphale might have stumbled, might have faltered a hundred times, if Crowley hadn’t been there, steadier and safer, somehow, despite everything, than the world around them.

Which brought him back to the present, with the flames and the bombs and this endless, cold night at the end of 1940. It might not have been Armageddon, but it certainly felt like the world was ending to the angel. His city was burning around him and he could do nothing to stop it, and where the _fuck_ was Crowley?

Aziraphale let out a little snarl as he whirled around and strode up the length of the shop again. He was going out, he couldn’t just stand here and wait, not knowing, not able to do anything, to protect anyone—he and Crowley had been helping evacuate people for months but there were still so many people in the city, so many people who would be dead by morning if Aziraphale couldn’t _do_ something. He wrenched open the door and was about to step out into the unnaturally bright night when Crowley pushed him back inside.

He looked at Aziraphale, his chest heaving, leaning against the door. There was soot on his face and his clothes were singed.

“Please,” Crowley whispered, his voice cracking, “please just stay inside, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale said firmly, and then he stopped. Whatever objections he’d been about to make, whatever he’d been about to say about duty and protecting humanity and the war roaring on in the skies of London, it died in his throat at the pleading look in Crowley’s eyes.

The demon took a step forward, then another, and then he was reaching out a hand to pull Aziraphale to him in a crushing hug. Aziraphale let out a little gasp as Crowley’s thin arms wound around him and fisted in the back of his shirt. His arms came up instinctively to hug Crowley right back, to stroke through his hair, although he had no idea what to say to soothe him.

“Please.” Crowley said again, his voice even weaker than before. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You… what?” Aziraphale said, dumbfounded. And here he’d thought he’d been the one leaning on Crowley these last few years.

“If you get discorporated, or go off to the continent, or, or—” Crowley took a great gulp of air, “I can’t do all this alone anymore, angel, I can’t lose you. So when I ask you to stay inside and out of the way, stay safe, you bloody well better listen to me.”

Aziraphale nodded, still very confused. He pressed a kiss impulsively to Crowley’s temple, and Crowley flinched away from the gesture before leaning into it. Aziraphale did it again, letting his lips linger on Crowley’s skin. The demon let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“It’ll all be over soon.” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley laughed, a short, hysterical sound.

“I know, I know, and what about next year? The year after that? What’s next, angel?”

“We’ve endured worse.” Aziraphale reminded him. It was true; Egypt, for one. Pompeii. The 14th century. “And if you need to know I’m safe, here I am.” It wasn’t a terribly useful thing to say, but Aziraphale didn’t know what else he _could_ say. It wasn’t like he’d been expecting his long-time enemy and sort-of friend to spend a couple of years keeping him company and preventing the world from going completely to Hell only to collapse against him like this. This part was unprecedented.

Eventually Crowley straightened up, sniffing and straightening his suit. He ran a hand over his face and down his front, vanishing the grime and debris and the singe marks. And then, he gave Aziraphale a small but characteristically mischievous grin, and flicked the lights on overhead.

Aziraphale instantly flicked them back off. “Blackout, Crowley, you know better.”

Crowley shrugged. “Nobody’s going to see anything, not with half the city on fire. C’mon, angel. Humor me.”

Aziraphale allowed him to light the room up, allowed him to turn on the record player in the back room. A soft piece of music began to play. A waltz.

“Dance with me.” Crowley said. He held out his hand, palm up. Not a question, an expectation.

Aziraphale laughed. It was just so absurd. The world was falling to pieces through no work of Above or Below, all of London was burning for the second time since Aziraphale had lived there, and Crowley wanted to dance. “You know I’m a terrible dancer.” Is what he said.

“I know.” Crowley said, not withdrawing his hand. “So am I. Dance with me, anyway.”

Aziraphale shook his head even as he took Crowley’s hand, put his other hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley put a hand on his waist and shot him a grin.

“Letting me lead, Aziraphale? How chivalrous of you.”

“This has nothing to do with chivalry and everything to do with protecting your feet, my dear.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley snorted.

They moved around the room, les than gracefully, but not uncomfortably. Crowley was humming very slightly, keeping time as they danced. The record jumped back to the beginning of its own accord, over and over, keeping them suspended in a moment together as the world roared by outside.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long they circled his bookshop, but at some point they’d switched positions and Crowley’s head had ended up on his shoulder. They weren’t dancing so much as swaying together as the first rays of the sun crept through the bookshop’s front window.

“Crowley, look.” Aziraphale murmured, nudging him up. Crowley raised his head, opened his eyes, and blinked at the weak golden light moving towards them across the worn old wood floor. “We made it.”

“Yeah.” Crowley said. His voice was rather hoarse. “We did.”

The record stopped at last, and Crowley smiled tiredly at Aziraphale. He let go of the demon reluctantly, surprising himself.

“We should go check on the damage.” Crowley said, rubbing a hand down his face as he moved to look out the window.

“I was rather thinking we should get some sleep.” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s head whipped around to look at him. “The bombing’s stopped. Whatever’s happened, the worst is over.”

“Since when do you sleep?” Crowley said in an accusing tone.

“I don’t, normally, but you look like you could fall over at any moment. You need rest.” Aziraphale said, very firmly. “And if you’re sleeping, so am I.”

Crowley just stared at him.

“I won’t leave you alone.” Aziraphale said after a moment, and then looked away, embarrassed. But Crowley’s expression had cleared, and he nodded and moved towards the stairs up to the flat above the shop.

“Come on, then, angel. Let’s go to bed.”

And they did.

Across London, an article was being written up for the paper about the miraculous survival of St Paul’s Cathedral, complete with a picture, taken by Mr Herbert Mason, of the dome against a backdrop of smoke and rubble. Nobody knew, because nobody saw, but there had been a demon crouching on the roof that night, who had surreptitiously pushed a bomb down onto the pavement below rather than let it fall through.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Is That All There Is was first performed in 1967 by Georgia Brown, who was evacuated from London during the Blitz. 
> 
> This is NOT a period of history I know a ton about, I did three hours of wikipedia research for this and that's it. I apologize for any inaccuracies.


End file.
